Page 129 of The Gaybor War

"Go sequins."

"I am meeting his mother."

"So? Impress her."

"I want her to trust me, not fear me."

Malia snorts. "Coward."

I hang up and try a deep V-neck sweater. Too much chest. I try a fitted button-down. Too corporate. I try a cozy cardigan. Too librarian. Finally, in a moment of uncharacteristic self-betrayal, I choose something simple: dark jeans, soft gray sweater, clean sneakers, and an understated watch. Comfortable. Neutral. Warm. Very… Carter-coded.

I stare at myself in the mirror. Who is she?

But when I imagine his quiet approval, the way his eyes soften when I look like I belong in his world, my chest does that stupid flutter again.

"Traitor," I mutter to my reflection. Still, I keep the outfit.

Grabbing the basket of homemade corn muffins and yeast rolls, I head across the street and knock on the door of Carter’s atrocious neon lemon-taffy house, which should be illegal under both HOA guidelines and basic aesthetic decency.

The door opens almost immediately.

Carter’s there in a soft flannel and dark jeans, sleeves rolled up, hair still a little damp as though he rushed. He smells like coffee and soap and something warm from the kitchen—sage, maybe. Or butter. Or financial stability. Totally hot.

He looks at me—and pauses.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

I hold up the basket like a peace offering. "Carb tribute."

He takes it automatically, then seems to realize he’s still staring.

"You look…" He searches for the word. "Nice."

Not hot. Not bold. Not theatrical. Nice. And somehow, that hits harder.

"Don’t sound so surprised," I tease lightly.

"I’m not surprised. I’m just… appreciating."

That’s worse. In a good way. In a dangerous way.

As soon as I step inside, the warmth of the house wraps around me. Voices in the background, kitchen noise, and the low hum of family energy. It smells of roasting turkey and spices and comfort.

"Everyone’s here?"

"My brother’s terrorizing the TV. My mom’s reorganizing the counter. And my dad’s pretending he doesn’t notice."

I smile because they sound a lot like my parents. "Classic."

Damn, I should have come earlier instead of spiraling over my wardrobe so that we could have greeted them as a couple.

As we walk toward the kitchen, his hand brushes mine. Neither of us moves away. And suddenly, I’m not thinking about outfits, or parents, or expectations. I’m thinking about how strange it is that a man I once considered my arch-rival now feels like the safest place in the room.

And how quietly, steadily, that happened. As though it didn’t crash into my life. It just… moved in.

The kitchen is already a controlled disaster. Carter’s mother is at the counter, sleeves rolled up, commanding the space like a benevolent general. His father stands nearby, pretending to supervise while covertly sneaking bites of stuffing. His brother has claimed the living room, where a football game blares at a volume that suggests unresolved feelings about sports.